


This Is My Mind

by orphan_account



Series: Chao's Kink Bingo [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A full grown man and a 16 year old boy, Aphrodisiacs, Community: kink_bingo, Drug Use, Fake Shaman Rituals, Lots of babbling about rivers, Lots of babbling period, M/M, Sad attempts to make a character seem high
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles decides to follow in Deaton's footsteps in order to become more useful to the Pack.  It's a lot different than what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is My Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [setos_puppy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/setos_puppy/gifts).



> We're in the very illegal parts of underage. Also, possible trigger warning for Drug Use. Written for Kink Bingo, and dedicated to Mina, who is the best writing partner ever, no matter how much I flail angrily at her.
> 
> Title from 'Mouthwash' by Kate Nash

The way the animal clinic looked should have been ridiculous. The normally sharp, metallic lines of the back room had been softened by quiet lighting and swaths of draping fabrics. Strings of beads and chimes hung from the ceiling, creating a oddly natural white noise, and Stiles wouldn’t be surprised at all if there was a real noise generator hidden somewhere on the room.

It should have been silly - farcical, even - but to Stiles it felt more right than he could explain.

Deaton ushered him and and settled him gently on one of the many cushions and blankets that had been thrown about to make the floor warm and comfortable. Picking a particularly large and fluffy one, since why not, Stiles sat on it cross-legged and watched the man make his way over to the table that he’d seen members of the Pack stitched up on far too often.

That was why he was here, actually.

Pouring several powders - none of which Stiles recognized, except for one that was a suspicious shade of dark purple - from different jars into a mortar, Deaton started to grind them together as he spoke. “One of the most important, and sadly difficult, aspects of the type of magic I, and hopefully you, practice is the ability to simply believe in it. It can be difficult to turn off rational thinking, and often time stress only complicates matters.”

Nodding, Stiles glanced down at his bare feet. “Yeah, I noticed that.” He’d meant for it to come out more dry, but instead it was soft, almost matter-of-fact.

“I’m sure you did,” Deaton replied, as he finally put down the stone and turned around. The mixture was now an odd grey-blue color, like how storm clouds looked reflected off of the local lake, and shifted with his steps. The man placed it down in front of Stiles and crouched down beside him, hands on his knees. “The key to what we do is to teach ourselves to get passed that. The most effective methods are the ones that have been passed down for generations now, and they tend to be somewhat... unorthodox.”

Glancing down at the powder, which was so fine that bits of it hung in the air like dust, Stiles resisted the urge to snort. Yeah, he bet it was. “You want my consent, then?”

“That’s one way to look at it.” Deaton replied, voice that oddly cheery professional tone, and Stiles wondered if he could keep that up when he was high on shaman powder. Probably. “You can back out now. I just thought you’d appreciate me warning you about what you’re getting into. If you’d like to leave, this would be the best time for it.”

A million PSAs flashed through Stiles’ mind - crack is whack, kiddies! Just say no! - but none of them every talked about life or death situations. Then again, most teenagers didn’t have to chose between being dead weight in a werewolf pack, or getting high so that he could do voo-doo.

Or, hey, maybe this was someone’s Friday night. Who was Stiles to judge?

Deciding that keeping everyone from being killed by God-knows-what was more important than not disappointing his fourth grade teacher, Stiles nodded. “Am I going to have to do this every time I wanna be useful? Or can this just be for now.” Deaton’s look of amusement suggested that it was just for training. And that settled it. “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s get me stoned.”

Chuckling again, Deaton moved so he was behind Stiles, arms reaching around his shoulders. Procuring a lighter, the man tilted the mortar until a trail of the powder broke off toward the edge. The movement was practiced, and Stiles wondered if maybe this gone done a little more often then whenever Deaton snagged himself a student.

When the powder caught, it gave an oddly blue smoke, and the room immediately started to smell sweet. Good, even. The flames flashed from the normal color to a pale blue color, dancing in the cup, and Stiles let out a giggle before he thought about it. “Is it gunna tell us who the Hogwarts Champion is?”

Deaton gave a huff of a laugh, but didn’t answer. That was fine, ‘cause Stiles already knew who the Champion was, but Cedric Diggory wasn’t around. Probably for the best, really - he’d avoid getting killed at the end, which was a good thing and maybe Stiles was getting a little affected already. Wow, that worked fast. 

Cupping his large hands around the goblet - er, mortar - Deaton raised it so it was a few inches below his chin, far enough that the flames didn’t really bother him, but close enough that the smoke could waft right into his face. “Take deep breaths, Stiles.” He coached gently, voice soothing, and that seemed like an awesome idea, so Stiles did. In and out. In and out. _In and out._

_In._

_Out._

The solid warmth against his back was very comforting, so Stiles leaned into that, humming off tune and feeling good. Better, even. Not only was he pleasantly floaty and lazy and happy, but his thoughts had smoothed out from the staccato bursts into something smooth and connected and floating, a river of ideas and thoughts that stretched from here to wherever he needed to go.

As Deaton - the name didn’t seem to fit him anymore, almost. Too sharp and dull and bold, like drums, but drums weren’t right. Not for right now. It should be smooth and flowing like the river, like the beads and chimes. Gentle and connected. Shhh. Shaman. Yes, that was right - put down the mortar, he the smell and heat lessened, but it was okay because he could still feel them both. He was connected to them, like he was connected to the river and to his thoughts and to Shaman and to the Pack and to Magic. It was all the same thing, really. 

The way his lips felt dry and chapped alerted Stiles to the fact that he’d been speaking his thoughts. What little filter he normally had was demolished by the river, and now he was honest and clear. Licking his lips, he turned to look at Shaman, who was inching away from him to grab another jar of powder. No, he was supposed to stay! They were connected, so they should be physically connected too. It just made sense. Besides, he felt good, and Stiles wanted to keep that pleasant, solid warmth at his back. But Shaman just laughed and patted his shoulder, finally grasping the jar and pouring some into his hand. It was red and gold and orange and seemed to almost reflect the light, sparkling like the glitter the Drag Queens had worn so proudly.

“Use this to turn on the candles.” Shaman instructed softly, gesturing with his other hand toward a small line of old, tiny candles across the room. Nodding, Stiles tried to stand, but the large hand held him down. “No, like this.” Holding the powder up below his mouth, Shaman whispered into his ear. “Blow.”

So he did.

It flashed up like flames from his breath, bright and sudden and hot, but that was okay, because the powder floated up into the air and toward the candles and then they were alight. Cool. “I did it?” He asked, voice gleeful and childishly happy, and Shaman smiled against his ear, which felt good too. 

“Yes, you did.”

Stiles moaned in pleasure, simply happy to have been useful and to have done something right, which transformed into a whimper as he realized how his body was reacting. The heat wasn’t just coming from the flames - it was coming from in him, a fire of his own burning brightly and _needing_ to be stoked. Arching back, he pressed as much as himself as he could into Shaman, who gave another of those pleasant laughs. “Feeling it, are you?” Stiles nodded, because he was and why should he hide it? “Well, since this has been such as success, I don’t see why we can’t indulge a little.”

Before Stiles’ brain could piece together what he was talking about, Shaman’s hand reached around palmed over his needy erection. The flesh felt huge and heavy and warm on him, even through the fabric, and Stiles bucked into it, letting out needy little mewls. He simply needed it, no pride or filters to stop him.

Shaman never opened his pants, never freed his poor erection, never so much and moved his hand from its spot. He just massaged soothingly into the source of Stiles’ ache, while he rutting into him, reaching back to cling to his broad shoulders and thick neck. “Please,” he whined out, mouth spilling words without so much as permission. “Need it, please I want more, need release, please help me.”

Young and inexperienced and sensitive as he was, it didn’t take Stiles long at all to spill into Shaman’s hand. The world spiraled and blurred and tilted, and he let himself go limp slacking into Shaman’s tight grip and letting it all smooth out into heat and smoke and river flow.

When Stiles came to, everything had been cleared out except for the jars, and the room was cleared of the sweet smoke. He still felt a little dizzy, a little dazed, but for the most part he was back to himself. Unfortunately. Glancing down at the tried, uncomfortable mess that was his jeans, Stiles winced.

“No need to be embarrassed.” Shaman - oops, Deaton - slipped into the room, back to polite professional. Which was kind of surreal now, considering that the guy had gotten Stiles high as a kite and given him a handjob. You know, as you do. “It’s a perfectly natural reaction, especially for a first time.”

Nodding with all the collected confidence he could (which wasn’t much, but Stiles was good at pretending. Maybe even better now), he slid off the table and glanced around. “I, uh... thanks. For helping.”

“Not a problem.” Deaton replied easily. “I’d suggest waiting about fifteen minutes or so for the rest to wear off, but after you should be perfectly fine to drive. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some animals that need attending to.” Apparently satisfied that Stiles’ brain hadn’t been fried, Deaton ducked back out, and Stiles could vaguely hear the sounds of animals reacting to his presence.

For a moment, Stiles kicked his feet against the ground, not sure what to do for the next fifteen minutes. Really, leaving him to his own devices for any amount of time was just a bad idea. Then he spotted the rest of the jars, eyes settling on a specific one, filled with red and gold and orange.

Had he really...?

Well, that was the point of all of it. But it was still startling that Stiles could have made something light of fire from across the room, even if they were just little candles. Ones that were still there, in fact, if out now.

Making his way over, Stiles poured a small measure into his hand, weighing it. The powder felt like nothing, like dust or ash.

There was just no way that this st-

See, that was what he was learning to fight. That was what was going to sabotague him. Stiles squared his jaw, staring down at the powder. Then he brought it up to rest in front of his mouth, hand cupped, and concentrated on the sensation of the smoke, of the river and the flow and the surety of it all.

Then he _blew_.

The candles lit.

Stiles smiled.


End file.
